One Night
by MapleleafCameo
Summary: It was suppose to be a one night stand. John, in emotional pain from a fight with his family was looking for comfort, Sherlock just a little release. Just basic meaningless sex. Johnlock Rated M. Happy Birthday mattsloved1


**A/N: Here is a naughty, smutty, angsty little fic for my good friend mattsloved1 for her birthday. Beware those afraid of man on man action;) Go no further. She picked three words for me to use, which are **_**otherworldly, strop, trembling**_

**Triggers for abuse, one homophobic slur, unsafe sex, brief mention of suicidal thoughts and swearing – I guess swearing isn't really a trigger and I use it in most of my fics so… and apparently most of my birthday fics are angsty.**

**I played with the Sherlock's age a little bit. Just to be safe:P**

**Thanks to johnsarmylady for looking this over:)**

**I do not own, which is probably a good thing;) I do own all of the mistakes in this ficlet – all of them! The mistakes are mine! I did borrow a few lines for BBC Sherlock but I swear I put them to good use:)**

_November 19, 1994_

"Set your bag there."

"Thanks, Bill. And thanks, thanks again, for you know…"

"Jeez, I couldn't let you sleep on the street, just 'cause your Dad's being a dick, so, yeah."

"Yeah, well, he always did get into a **strop** about propriety and 'what will the neighbours think.'" He could feel a black abyss, one he'd been trying to block, opening inside him, in his centre, at the thought of what his father had done, what he had said.

"This was more than a strop, John."

He didn't respond. He just nodded tightly and sat on the bed in Bill's folks' guest room. Sighing, he wondered how his life could be so thoroughly fucked up.

"I know you probably aren't in the mood, but a bunch of us are going to a party at Craig's. I was going to go, but you know, if you'd rather stay here or want me to stay here, we can just eat crap and watch shit on the telly."

"Nah. Let's go. I don't want to stay here. It'll be good to get out. Take my mind off things."

Bill Murray ran a hand through dark hair and nodded. "Right then. Let's go. What are you going to tell them about your eye?"

"Nothing. Let them think what they want."

His friend nodded again, a little uncertainly. "All right then."

The two young men left the house and made their way over to the party. They entered the house greeted by a wall of noise and were immediately hailed with cheers of 'Great to see you!' 'Have a beer!' 'Hey Watson, what's the other guy look like?'. John just grimaced noncommittally and shook his head. Bill parted ways as soon as he spotted his latest conquest. John smirked slightly. At least Bill _thought_ she was his conquest. He lived forever in hope.

Tossing his jacket into a spare room, he shoved his way past people. Staying at Bill's house alone hadn't been appealing, but he really hadn't wanted to come either. He made his way to the kitchen. From the window, he could see not many had spilled out into the small garden off of the kitchen. He decided to go out into the fresh air and the quiet. There were fewer lights and he could avoid the questioning looks he was getting from people staring at his black eye. In an inconspicuous corner, beer in hand, he stared up at the sky, thinking. It wasn't easy to see the tiny lights up there because of the glare from the nearby streetlamps, but a few made their presences known.

"You're John Watson."

John spun around, startled out of his thoughts. It had become darker, but there was still enough light left from the day's end so he could make out a tall, pale, young man, younger than him, standing nearby. A nearly finished cigarette was balanced between long fingers and he stood with an insolent grace. John's eyes flickered and watched as he followed the trail of the cigarette up to a full, lush mouth. He glanced up from the mouth and took in the eyes, hooded and sullen looking, hard to discern the colour in the twilight. The end of the cigarette flared again as the speaker took a drag.

"Erm, yeah, yeah that's me. How did you know?"

"I've heard of you. Your name's come up in conversation."

"So people talk?"

A sardonic smirk. "They do little else."

"And you are?"

"Holmes. Sherlock Holmes."

John blinked. He had heard of him, too. "You're the mad one that blew up the chem lab." It wasn't a question.

Holmes' grin became fiercer. "Yes."

Silence hung between them, but not as an intruder.

John cleared his throat. "So what do you know about me?" not sure where that had come from. Normally he couldn't care less what most thought of him, but something about listening to Holmes talk was doing things to his brain. His voice was deep and melodious and it vibrated through him. He was rather enjoying watching that mouth move and he found his eyes glancing between it and the long expanse of pale neck above a pristine white tailored shirt that was just a little too tight across the chest.

O**therworldly** eyes latched onto John's.

Once, when he was younger, John went to a zoo and was standing, staring in fascination at the lions. There was a good distance between him and the pride that were basically lazing about in the noonday sun. Suddenly he was aware of a female just staring at him, as equally fascinated with him as he was with her. She was sizing him up, as if he were a meat suit. He had felt a cold shiver, not of fear, but something more primal as she watched him. It was definitely a look of, 'You are prey. I would eat you whole if I could be bothered and if I wasn't in an enclosure.'

There was something of that look given to him by Holmes. Not indifference. Fascination. And something more. He had a similar feeling of the primal, a shiver through his body and a **trembling** through his soul. Here was a predator, but one John would gladly give himself too, bare his throat and let the man consume him. Something inside him called to something inside Holmes. He wondered briefly about the aberrant thoughts infiltrating his brain, but he found he didn't care. Maybe the events of the last few days were proposing a recklessness he didn't normally have.

"You have recently finished your undergraduate degree and are now heading off to med school. But that isn't enough for you. You feel you are lacking in excitement and combined with a need to do well and to serve so that when you have finished, you will join the army. You are the 'good boy' in your family. You have a sibling. Older, but they are considered to be the failure, the black sheep. Your family has relied on you to be steady and true, to work hard and set an example. But something recently changed that. Ah, I see!" A look of triumph flashed in his all-seeing eyes. And something more, which was suppressed and was barely visible in their depths. "You recently came out, not gay, bisexual. You have been exploring the possibilities and you like them, more than you thought you would. You have a fluid definition of your sexuality, a 'love the one your with mentality', but your parents, your father in particular, doesn't accept that, hence the black eye. Most here will assume you either got in a fight, which you tend to do if the odds are stacked against someone defenceless or they insult your friends or that you received it during a rugby match. Not everyone knows you've recently quit rugby because it is playing havoc on your knees. Now your father not only hit you and you stood by and let him thinking, erroneously I might add, that you deserved it, but he has kicked you out. You moved in with your friend Bill, also in medicine, also joining the army. You have applied to the army early to help pay for medical school as your family has cut you off." He paused and his eyes returned to rest upon John's. "How did I do?" There was a certain expectation in his face as he watched John's. Not pride or arrogance, but as if he were resigned to being hurt and disappointed.

John blinked. Only some of what he'd said could have come from gossip. The rest, well only Bill knew about his plans to join the army and his parents, but he wouldn't have talked about it. "That was…amazing."

A look of surprise and a hint of pleasure, a frown and then the smile that didn't hit the mouth but this time reached the eyes, those amazing eyes. "That's not what most people say.

"I'm not most people."

"No. You're not." A curious, hungry expression crossed Holmes' face.

John smiled, for the first time in forever, which made his whole face light up, but the tug of skin as it stretched the blackened eye, made him wince.

"Your father's a bastard."

"Yeah, thanks. I know. Nothing new. Not really. But it just…I just didn't see it coming."

He was wondering what it was about this man that was letting him share his feelings this way.

"So what's your story? Why did you blow up the chem lab?"

Holmes continued to look at John with a puzzled expression. Then he smiled and the feral, wild thing was back. "That's a story for another day. You really don't want to know why I blew up the chem lab."

"I don't?"

"No," and Holmes was suddenly in his space, closer than most people usually got and John's heartbeat picked up suddenly, the organ threatened to shoot out of his chest. He leaned closer to John. "No. You don't. You came to the party for a distraction. You didn't wish to be alone. But it's dull and they are not distracting you. Why else would you be out here? No. You need something; you just don't know what it is. But I do."

John's tongue darted out and he subconsciously licked his lips. "You do?" his voice was breathless, barely a whisper.

"Yes, I think I do. " And before he could think there was a long leg pressing between his own, pressed hard against his cock. Two hands carefully cradled either side of his face and turned it up to face Holmes. "No, John. This is what you want." And those lips, which had been confusing John since he first saw them, fell upon his own and began to explore, softly and tenderly, wrapping around his upper lip and gently pulling. A tongue came out and began to slowly, inquisitively flick the outer edges and John, without thought or hesitation, opened his own mouth and let Sherlock in. He could taste the slightly acrid flavour of the cigarette, but he didn't care. He felt himself, his inner self, the one he'd protected, melt and slide into this embrace, being held by a stranger, exciting and wonderfully distracting. The bottle slipped from his grasp, unnoticed. His own hands came up and seized the front of the tailored shirt Holmes was wearing. He gathered fistfuls of it and drew him closer, trying to connect with as much of his own body as he could. He didn't care that he'd just met the man, he didn't care others might be watching. He needed this. Need this to purge the hurt and the sorrow and the incredible loneliness that had taken up residence ever since his father had punched him, called him a god damned faggot and shoved him out the door, barely giving him time to gather the few possessions he had left at home.

The plump, full mouth began to press kisses along John's jaw, hard and needy. He tilted his head and gasped as a warm tongue grazed a sensitive spot by his ear and then nipped. Whispered words, warm and cold at the same time, brushed the outer rim. "Come with me. I know some place a little more private." Abruptly John was standing alone. Holmes had turned and began making his way back through the garden and to the house, picking up a long black coat and shoving John's jacket at him, on the way through. He didn't even bother to figure out how the man had known which was his. John caught Bill's eye as they passed the living room and mouthed "Catch you later." Bill looked confused for a moment and then seeing whom he was trailing, gave him a broad grin and a wink.

John caught up to Holmes on the pavement. He was walking rapidly toward a busier street. By the time John's shorter legs had brought him alongside, a cab was being hailed.

One turned up rather fast and John was shoved in first. Sherlock barked an address at the cabbie. Thinking he was safe in the cab, John was mistaken. Sherlock picked up where he'd left off. His hand, now encased in leather gloves, began to slide along John's thigh and back down to the knee and up again. He brushed and teased the front of John's trousers, never quite touching as firmly as he'd like. John was having a difficult time not pushing his crotch into the gloved hand, something about the leather being an incredible turn on. Try as he might, he couldn't help the stifled moans coming from his mouth from getting louder, particularly after Sherlock began lapping the outside of his ear and whispering all the things he was going to do to him when they reached his flat.

The cab screeched to a halt in front of an older, rundown building. Sherlock grinned evilly at the thoroughly annoyed cabbie and tossed some money at him. He grabbed John's hand and yanked him from the cab, shoving him against the outer door and he pressed hard, the entire length of his body against John's, trapping him firmly.

He leaned down and whispered again. "You need to know, I don't do relationships. This is a one-night deal, but I promise I'll make it worth your while and you won't ever forget me. But it might help you forget things, for a while. Nod if you agree."

John nodded, groaned and gasped as Sherlock finally laid his hand on his aching cock. He was going to come right there if Sherlock didn't stop doing what he was doing, but he didn't really want him to stop.

Somehow Sherlock managed to open the front door all while kissing and fondling John. He led him to a pokey, little flat almost under the stairs and brought them inside. He shoved the door shut using John as a weight against it. He slowly removed John's jacket. John tried to raise his hands to help Sherlock out of his coat but Sherlock grabbed his wrists and held them above John's head with one hand. "Shhh. My rules." With his other hand, he lowered the zip on John's trousers and stroked the front of his pants, already damp. "Look what I found here. That's a pleasant surprise. You don't look it from the size of you. So much to look forward to." John took his mouth in his own, the friction on his cock, the pleasure it was sending to his brain, warring with the remark about his height.

"No one's complained yet," he growled back.

Sherlock kissed and shoved and pushed John onto the couch, an old leather thing, patched up here and there with electrical tape. He removed John's shoes one at a time and flung them, along with his socks to the far corner of the room. With a jerk, John's trouser were stripped off of him and Sherlock was between his legs, nosing along the outside of his pants, mouthing his length.

He suddenly stood and dropped his coat to the floor. He made short work of shoes, shirt and trousers and not terribly surprised, John saw he wasn't wearing pants. Naked and glorious in the light from the street, he lay down on top of John and reached over his head to the side table where he found and produced a bottle of lube. Holding the lube for John to see, he said, his voice a rough whisper, "I'm going to work you and take you and you are going to beg for me and then I am going to fuck you, slowly, until you are broken down and gasping for it."

John could not speak, his voice having been lost somewhere during the cab ride. He didn't even feel his pants come off. He did hear the pop of the cap on the lube and felt the press of long, cool fingers on the entrance to his hole as they slowly worked him open. He panted and moaned again as a glorious, hot mouth descended on his length and engulfed him. His brain was switched off unaware of everything except what this man was doing to his body. As the second and the third finger slipped in, he heard Sherlock come off his cock and whisper in his ear. "You are so hot and tight, I can't wait, John. What do you want? Say it!" There was a dangerous, slightly mad glint in his eyes. John wondered momentarily what he'd got into but he really didn't care. "Say it!"

"Oh Christ, Sherlock, I want you to fuck me. Please."

"Not yet."

And he descended upon John again, biting, licking, stretching. He took him into his mouth again and licked and swirled his tongue in such a way John thought he'd scream.

"Oh fuck! Oh please! Now Sherlock, please." He looked down and could see eyes peeking out from under a curly fringe and feel an evil grin on that sinful mouth. He sat up, and lifting John's hips, he positioned himself at his entrance and slowly, slowly, sweetly pushed his way in. John tensed for a minute, the sensation strange. He'd never really gone quite this far before, but he needed it, wanted it. Sherlock entering him seem to fill the howling pain inside his chest. He bit his lip and nodded again when Sherlock asked if he was ready. And then he was in, all the way. Sherlock had hooked one of John's legs over his shoulder and he leaned down and kissed him sloppily on the mouth. John could vaguely taste himself on Sherlock and it was hotter and sexier than he thought possible. A hand reached between them and began to stroke him in time with the thrusts that were coming harder and faster.

Then he'd slow down and pause and the thrusts would be intermittent and teasing. He pulled out and took John again. John knew this was it. He wasn't going to last. He tugged on Sherlock's hair to warn him, but he just looked at John lazily and kept doing what he was doing. John could feel it gathering in the pit of his stomach, tight and coiling. It crashed upon him as he came into Sherlock's mouth, shouting. He had closed his eyes tightly and bright flashes seemed to dance on his retinas. He felt a hand in his hair and Sherlock fucked into him hard. He was leaning into his shoulder, biting hard. John heard him come with an almost silent cry and then he felt the weight of Sherlock as he collapsed upon him, chests heaving, trying to suck in enough oxygen. With a groan Sherlock rolled off of John and lay upon the floor. John squinted down on him. "That was…fuck, I don't even know what that was."

Sherlock grinned up at him. "We can go again later if you want." He sat up and then stood, stretched and walked naked to the small bathroom. John could hear him washing up in there. He watched through tired eyes as the man came out and walked to the coat he'd dropped on the floor. He rummaged around, retrieving a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He lit one and held the pack out to John, who shook his head. "Those will kill you."

"That or something else. I'm growing older every day. Everyone dies sooner or later, John," came the reply.

His long neck arched as he blew the smoke up toward the ceiling.

"Yes and you're so old now. What are you, nineteen?" John rolled over onto his side and watched. Dead set against smoking since as long as he could remember, there was something impossibly sexy about watching the man who had just had him, drag in lungfuls of the killer smoke.

Sherlock chuckled "I am all of twenty."

Not that much younger than him, then. "So why no relationships?" A wary glance at John's face saw only curiosity, not someone trying to talk him around into starting one.

A shrug, "I am not a people person, I don't do feelings and I don't do commitment."

"So what the hell was that, besides the most amazing sex I've ever had?"

Sherlock took another puff and blew out, before answering. He waved his arm down his body. "This is only transport. It needs fuel and rest occasionally and sometimes other things as well. I am doing my best to put a stop to the other things, but sometimes, after going without sex for long enough, it becomes a distraction." He frowned and rubbed at his mouth with the back of his thumb. "And since I only do it once in a while I might as well make it worth my time and energy. You seemed…interested. I found you fascinating. And it seemed to satisfy mutual urges. Yours for meaningless sex to put a bandage on your heart, mine for release."

"So I scratch your back…"

"And I fuck you against the wall." The evil grin was back and John leaned over, despite the tang of cigarette on Sherlock's tongue and kissed him soundly, slowly, mouths moving against each other, in gentle rhythms, the edge of heated sex having been taken off earlier, they could go slower. A hand came up and cupped John's face again and a thumb gently traced over the bruised eye. Sherlock pulled back and frowned at the mark on John's face. "I could have him killed for you. My brother knows people." He turned, dropping his hand and stubbed out the cigarette into an overflowing ashtray. "Or I could do it myself. No one would find him."

John wasn't entirely sure Sherlock was joking, so all he said was "Then he'd never learn." He pulled Sherlock's head around again for a deeper kiss. Sherlock pulled at John and dragged him off the couch. He whispered into his ear. "The bathroom's a little small, but there is room for two in the shower. Just. I can fuck you in there or you can do me if you want."

The two men stood and made their way to the shower. There they slowly took each other apart again. John went down on his knees, whilst Sherlock leaned back against the cold tiles. It was a slower exploration. The hot water lasted almost long enough. Wrapped in towels, Sherlock took him to the little bedroom off of the living room and lay John on the covers and finished the job. This time John, at the height of his second orgasm, broke down and did something he never did. He cried whilst Sherlock held him and he muttered 'Hush' and 'Shhh, he's not worth it.' John, eyes bright from tears, rubbed a hand through the glorious riot of curls.

"Not a people person, my arse."

Something changed in Sherlock's eyes, something entered in that hadn't been there before, something wonderfully vulnerable and human. He frowned at John and kissed him, kissed his eyes, nose, kissed the tracks left from his tears, kissed down his throat and then he laid John's head upon his chest. John could hear the comforting thrum of the heart beating just under the skin. Sherlock engulfed him with his legs and arms and held him tight, hands stroked up and down John's back. The weight that had been on his heart since that terrible night shifted and while it wasn't completely gone it had faded in the glow of lying in these arms.

And they talked, quiet murmurs of hopes and dreams, of past and the future, but both skirted around the edge of what would happen to them when this one night was over.

They eventually fell asleep. Morning came sooner than John wished as he slowly sat up and extricated himself from the human octopus he'd shared the bed with. He stood and stared at the man sleeping on the bed for a long time, just watching him breathe. He looked so much younger asleep; all the cynical lines and harsh cruelties were made smooth and blended in. John sighed and walked out to the living room to gather his clothes. He'd just finished doing up his shoes, when Sherlock came out of the bedroom, wrapped in a sheet.

He stood there, blinking at John. Shoes tied, he got off the couch and walked over to Sherlock and kissed him, deeply, with an edge of hunger and sorrow. A goodbye kiss, even though underneath it, he knew neither of them wished to say the words. He grabbed his coat from the floor and opened the door, before he could change his mind.

"John?"

He paused but didn't look back. "Yeah?"

"Be careful. In the army. And your dad?

John risked a glance over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

"He's an arsehole."

John chuckled, pain blooming in his chest once more, but a different pain, more molten, a purer pain than from the night before. He swiftly left, carefully shutting the door behind him.

oOo

_January 29__th__, 2010_

Sherlock could hear voices in the hall. One was Mike Stamford, the second was quieter, not as clear. He sighed and rolled his eyes. Mike had obviously taken his request to heart. Sherlock knew Mike fancied himself a bit of a matchmaker, swore he could find a flat mate, friend or date for anyone. It was a gift he'd say, much to Sherlock's inner amusement and outer annoyance. He'd brought back someone he'd met over lunch. He'd only said he was looking for a flat mate to get Mike to stop talking.

The door swung open and Sherlock looked up as a tantalizingly familiar voice, a secreted remembrance, said, "Bit different from my day."

He glanced swiftly at the face and sorted through memories as something fierce shot through his heart. He had put that memory, the one he'd not been able to forget, away, hidden but not lost, tucked safe and treasured like the glow from a fire. It had been one to keep him going through darker times. He'd always meant to look John up again, but thought he'd have moved on, got married or been killed in the war. He blinked and shook his head as shock and hope flowed through him. What would he find when the gate to the past unfastened?

Mike sat down, unaware of Sherlock's dilemma, "That's an old friend of mine. John…"

There was only one way to find out. Sherlock moved quickly around the workbench and stepped in front of John. He lifted a hand and brushed it along John's cheek, "Watson. You were shot. I told you to be careful. Why? Why did you let yourself get shot?"

John stared hungrily at Sherlock, the same hope and wonder bloomed across his expression, "I can't believe this. I have thought of you every day. I almost came back to your flat so many times."

Mike cleared his throat, "So you two know each other?" but his words went unheeded as Sherlock leaned down to John and gently kissed his lips.

"You wouldn't have found me there. I was kicked out soon after for accidently starting a fire."

John laughed, the pale shadow of the man he'd meet in Uni still there, just buried under layers of grief and pain and anger. He grew younger before Sherlock's eyes as he drank in the sight of him.

"You were the only one I was willing to change the rules for." He leaned his head against John's forehead and closed his eyes, breathed in the aroma of the man, scent the oldest sense, connected to memories stronger than any other trigger. A hand touched his hair.

"Knew you were lying."

Sherlock opened his eyes and quirked an eyebrow at John. "About what?"

"You said you weren't a people person."

Sherlock smiled a smile John couldn't know he would only share with him. "I'll have you know I am a high functioning sociopath."

John laughed again, loud and joyously, sunshine on this cold winter day, a sound Sherlock had never heard. "Bollocks." He stretched up on his toes and kissed Sherlock's mouth, as lush as he remembered. "So you're looking for a flat mate?" He said breaking off the kiss. "We hardly know each other."

Sherlock wrapped his hand around John's neck, "How do you feel about the violin?"

"Sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking, sometimes I don't talk for days. Would that bother you? Potential flat mates should know the worst about each other."

"I was shot in the shoulder in Afghanistan. It became infected and it took me a long time to recover. I can't be a surgeon anymore. Loss of job, loss of identity put me in a depressive, almost suicidal state. I have great, horrid, screaming nightmares sometimes."

There was sadness around Sherlock's eyes, as knowing and far seeing as when he'd been twenty. "I know. We'll have to do something about that. Come on John. I have a nice little place in central London."

He picked his coat up off of the stool his coat. "Let's go home."

The two men left and Mike sat there watching them leave. A little, bemused smile played about his mouth. "You did it again, Mike."


End file.
